


why even try

by Marishel



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horrortale, Angst, Gen, Genderless, Imprisonment, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 08:51:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9990731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marishel/pseuds/Marishel
Summary: They were not ready for what they’ve found in the cursed mountain’s womb.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Horrortale is such an interesting AU. Though I don't believe any monster there can be kind deep in soul, so this fic is a little... hopeless?
> 
> Note! Flowey is not just an observer, he's one of the "good guys". Also no Sans/Frisk, sorry folks.

Human books didn’t tell much about the war. Everybody knew it as an accomplished fact that has not be discussed. Nobody spoke about the war. Nobody knew the reasons which have caused it. The monsters were just sealed underground — that’s all.

If Frisk have ever doubted the decision humanity had taken, now they are sure it was right.

_The monsters should be buried here. Forever._

***

  
The talking flower has a thin stem and the soft leaves which twine round their shoulder. The teeny thorns prick through the sweater, touching their neck when the flower gets too close, muttering something in their ears. Frisk twitch involuntary because of the slight pain when turning their head.

The flower nicely calls itself «Flowey» and it has beautiful golden petals it caresses Frisk’s cheek with. Also it has only one big and penetrating eye that looks right inside their little and shivery soul.

They were not ready for what they’ve found in the cursed mountain’s womb.

  
***

The dim daylight strikes through the tiny window. Frisk move until they are surrounded by the light strips full of flying dust, and pull the sweater’s neck up. Flowey gets under it, hiding fragile leaves, closes the petals but leaves half-shut eye to keep a sharp lookout. The wind is howling outside and its cold reaches them through the gap in the wall; Frisk shudder and hug their knees to save some warmth at least.

There are twenty nicks made with the trembling hand already. It has been three weeks since they got here.

Three weeks since Papyrus finally succeeded to catch them.

Flowey stopped to remind them of their misstep after five days. Now it just sighs and glances with its incredible eye with no hope to see in. Now it doesn’t discourage them from eating, doesn’t suggest the runaway plans — it just warms in their bosom and silently waits for Frisk to reset the world.

Frisk are not going to because it’s useless.

They have almost got used to this place that has more in common with the dog’s booth than with the prison. This nailed-up drafty barn smells of the stranger’s bodies that have been here before Frisk, of the dog food left in the bowl and wet wood. The dirty hay crumpled like a nest reminds them of the forest that darkens beyond the town, and water in the bowl reminds of the Waterfall’s thunder Frisk can hear in windless days. Flowey always makes them thought about the golden flowers that they have stamped after the fall; that was the last thing they did willingly.

They thought that life on the Surface was the most terrible thing to happen. Well, now they’ve found something worse.

— We will remain trapped here forever, — Flowey mutters, when it thinks they fell asleep. — But even this is better than the Ruins, I guess.

Frisk tightens themselves, feeling empty and limp. They have nothing to say and nothing they can help with.

No one will help them either.

  
***

  
Papyrus always comes at the same time. He tinkers with a heavy barn lock for a while and the bunch of keys he carries rattles loudly; then he throws open the door and brings wet snow and wind gusts inside. Frisk are not afraid of him anymore, they’re even glad to see the skeleton, they almost smile when he greets them. Flowey hides behind their back defiantly, but Papyrus never notices it anyway — all his attention refers to the human.

— I BRING SOME FOOD! — he claims proudly, holding a steaming pan. — I MADE A DELICIOUS PASTA TODAY, HUMAN, YOU’LL DEFINITELY LOVE IT!

Frisk force out a weak smile when the pan is set right in front of their peaky face. They are prisoned for three weeks already and Papyrus still comes every day to feed them with a new portion of pasta and carry the dirty dishes away. It doesn’t matter if they’ve eaten the food or not — the next day he’ll return with the same meal anyway.

Frisk got tired of protesting long ago. They got tired of asking him to let go, of crying for his conscience, of cursing and scolding. Papyrus just always looks at them with empty eye sockets and stretches jowls in a silly smile, never to understand what’s wanted from him. Papyrus doesn’t fit the cap on, doesn’t believe that the human may wish to break free: something in his head that should be in charge of adequacy has been broken long ago and now these cogs are running at an idle speed, making him to go round at circle.  
Frisk know he is mad and forgive all the needles found in any bowl he has ever brought only because of that.

They know Papyrus is  _not trying_ to kill them. He just... cares? In his own way.

— He won’t be sad if you ever pierce your throat, — Flowey says when the skeleton is gone. — He won’t even understand you die. He considers you to be his little funny toy, doesn’t he?

Flowey is right and Frisk agrees when they check their food for any sharp things. They find four needles in today’s portion and the tiniest of them is so small they might have noticed its sparkle by miracle. Does Papyrus do it on purpose or is it the result of his craziness? Nevertheless, Frisk carefully inspect the pasta before eating a little bit.

It tastes like a chewed paper but they have no choice. They have to eat to survive. The hunger kills.  
Sans said something like that right before he tried to neck them.

***

  
— hey, kiddo. mind a hotdog?

Frisk give a start of surprise, then turn around and look up at the tiny window. Sans never comes on the schedule and it scares them to death each time. His dented skull doesn’t fit the window aperture so Frisk can see only the most injured part with the cracks covering the rest of the skull like a spider web. They are still figuring out where did this hole come from, but seem to never succeed.

— you’re done with pap’s spaghetti, aren’tcha? — he asks, looking over the dog-hole. — just say it and I’ll bring you some ‘dogs for free. you even don’t have to step _too close_ to me this time.

He howls with laughter that makes everything inside Frisk turn upside down. They shake their head in refuse and Sans grins.

— your choice, buddy. you don’t seem to be ok though.

They almost succeed to chuckle sarcastically. It’s hard to be ok when all your food is a half-done spaghetti and your home is a place like this. Hard to feel ok when a needle can pierce your throat any time.

It’s just _hard_ to be here.

Sans stares at them from above while they ask themselves how does he reach the window. Cause it’s high up and the skeleton is short. The ladder?

Sans grits his teeth disgustingly and Frisk stop wondering.

— I’m still thinking of how lucky you are, sweetie, — he says after a little time. — your luck paps is just the way he is. unlikely you’d not be sitting here right now.

They catch his derisive outspoken sight. It’s getting darker outside and Sans’s red eye sockets are glowing grimly like bloody stop-signs. It’s something impossible to get used to: at first Frisk were scared to see these eyes at the window at night so much they barely fell into faint.

Now they don’t almost feel the fear and it scares them more: arising apathy and aloofness. Overwhelming indifference towards everything, even themselves. Sometimes they feel like they’re almost ready to ask Sans to end what he has begun.

But not now. Now they’re still happy Papyrus is the way he is.

— I don’t mind if he wants to play. everything for my precious bro. you know, humans rarely come here. — he grins. — and those who does disappear without a trace. mysterious, huh?

He waits for Frisk to react, but their face is stony so he continues:

— we’re supposed to escort you to the king actually. he’s keen on collecting humans, kind of hobby. although it’s officially proclaimed that their souls can break the barrier I suggest it’s a bullshit, — he shrugs probably, Frisk judge by his head’s movements. — that’s why he’s not going to get another one. you caught pap’s fancy, sweetheart.

He giggles again but Frisk look at him absently. They got used to these weird puns and they heard something ‘bout the King and the souls before, and they do not care what will be the next thing Sans is going to say. They don’t hope that skeletons will ever let them leave.

So they just sit there and wait for... something. Flowey suggests to reset but Frisk have no desire to go through the goddamned hell once more. There’s no guarantee they would break away this time, or that they would be freed, that everything would go the right way. And who said that it would be better after the Snowdin? No one tries to kill them here, at least.

Well, Papyrus doesn’t.

Frisk still see this while dreaming: blood-stained axe in the Sans’s hand and his eye sockets shining with pure madness. They feel his steely grip on their wrist; their nape, hurt on the wooden beam, still aches. He probably was joking back then; he made a stupid pun about the hotdogs before trying to separate their head from the body, and only that saved their life. They forgot how to breath and their heart pounded like a house gong; they could not look away from Sans’s wide grin and his empty eye sockets. And then a stranger’s voice was heard and the axe was never to fall on their defenseless neck.

A few long insufferable seconds have passed until Sans let them go.

Flowey was really mad at Frisk then. It said: «I told you not to get too close to him!» and flapped its leaves, looking judgingly. Frisk hid their sight but they could not change what once happened.

Papyrus saved them just to capture in a narrow barn for the lifetime. And they still don’t know why did Sans stop back then; obviously his addiction to the younger brother outweighed his madness.

If they had a choice, they would say Sans is far more dangerous. But Frisk still feel his presence better than Papyrus’s. And Sans probably feels the same, because he always appears in the most inappropriate moments, like knowing what they are going to do in advance.

Whatever it means.

***

  
They tried to escape. They did it many times, getting away from the cold barn in different hard ways. They undermined the wall determinately, forced their way through Papyrus, got stuck in the tiny window. Sometimes they almost got by. Sometimes they fell down and die, breaking their bones, sometimes they managed to see the sky before suffocating in torturous jailer’s arms. Once — the only one time — they passed through Papyrus and fell into the grey wet snow, immediately hopping over and running away. His desperate cries followed them, but Frisk kept running, knowing they could pass out any time: they were weak, de-watered and determination was warming in their soul so lightly as it was about to die out. But the barn was left behind and the Waterfall’s thunder was getting closer, and Flowey even saw the border of Snowdin town — that was enough for their soul to shine brightly.

That was enough to lull their vigilance and get pulled right into San’s arms, who just appeared round the corner.

— you didn’t think you would get away from us, yeah? — he grinned, leaving bruises on the thin wrist. — don’t be so naive, kiddo. I always know the shortcut.

There was no axe in his arms, but Frisk knew: he can hurt without it.

That was the last time. Sans got them back into the barn, looking at Papyrus with satisfaction. His brother — good heavens! — was _worried_ ‘bout the human. Frisk had to endure his stranglehold hugs, glancing at Sans above the bony shoulder; the skeleton was leaning on the door and smiling almost friendly, but his eye sockets flickered in a wicked way.

He came at night and _asked_ them to not run away anymore. He didn’t touch them but Frisk huddled up into the corner and looked at him like an animal at bay. He didn’t get closer. He stayed by the door, and red coals of his eyes were smoldering in the barn’s shadows as Sans said:

— don’t make paps upset, buddy. I warn you this time. don’t you ever try to repeat this shit. maybe the next time I’d tell my brother I cannot find you, — he tilted his head, staring at them cunningly. — you understand I’d have to lie, don’t ya?

Frisk remember: the chills and the frozen tears on their cheeks, the quiet admission of defeat. The determination, trampled down into the frost ground, burnt in the stranger’s eye sockets.

Sans would _never_ let them go.

— don’t try to escape, sweetheart, — he was almost tender at that moment. — it’s worthless, believe me. you don’t have to try.

It seemed to them for a moment that he removed something called the madness mask. For a moment the fire in his eyes died out, his shoulders became peaky and his grin disappeared; for a short moment they saw someone lost and tired from all of this hell-like world.

But then he snapped his fingers and everything turned back to normal.

— just give up, kiddo, — he said for a goodbye before leaving them alone. — give up, ok? like I did.

And the door slammed, pointing his words.

After that Flowey said it almost feels pity for Sans. It frowned and said that it’s hard to live if you understand what is going on down here. When Frisk didn’t get it, Flowey just waved its leaves and muttered something.

However, after being prisoned for countless days they’ve figured it out themselves. They understood while looking at crazy Papyrus and listening to the deliberate Sans’s chatter about any rubbish. The world-under-the-mountain has destroyed itself; the monsters captured there have destroyed their souls. Figuratively. But everyone who wanted to survive in this nightmare has lost their mind and turned into... someone else, obviously. Like Papyrus. Like that poor old lady in the Ruins.

Like Sans.

Frisk have been thought about it for a while. Sans was worse than others in his madness; following his desperate desire to improve brother’s life he run to one extreme and went to another. And maybe his attempts to kill the human in any common way were just another chance for him to shelter.

Because he knew exactly what was going wrong. He, damn it, _recalled_ times when monsters were still striving to escape the Underground. Sans remembered that there’s something higher than the dark ceiling and brighter than the crystals.

The flash of conscious that night wasn’t imaginary. Frisk know that and that’s why they are afraid of Sans more than of anyone else. Because he knows exactly how to reduce this awful pain.

He has to kill the human and become a little more insane. Maybe then the defeat in their free breaking fight will stop bothering.

When Frisk finally figure it out they leave their attempts to run away.

They give up — just like Sans suggested.

***

  
Sans doesn’t linger. He usually has something to do: his job that smoothly goes into lunch that lasts until the evening. Sometimes he comes at night, knowing his bloody eyes in the window are a perfect picture to see, but it happens rarely. Frisk are happy with that without a doubt.

More rarely he  _enters_. But the times he does are remembered forever.

— welp, need to go now, buddy, — he stretches when he’s finally done with staring at the child through the tiny window. — you sure don’t wanna a hotdog? Why not?

Frisk sign. It comes out unclear cause there’s no one to practice with, but Sans understands anyway.

— I don’t mind if you like spaghetti, — he chuckles. — no pressure. see ya, kiddo.

He disappears as soundless as he comes. Flowey peeks out of their sweater’s neck cautiously and straightens its leaves — it hates meeting with Sans, especially after his last visit.

— Such a bastard, — it breathes out. — I’d strangle him if I can.

Frisk smile slightly and move their hands to answer, but the low voice from above interrupts:

— be careful with what ya saying, little flower.

Their sight meets Sans’s who is in a frame again, and Frisk freeze with a bad forefeeling. He continues:

— I’d tear your tongue out but you don’t have one. if you keep going this way there’s no chance to save you leaves too. I wander if you’d survive through this...

Flowey hides under the sweater’s neck, whispering curses. It’s scared and it trembles under the fabric, so Frisk caress Flowey’s petals gently and then frown. Sans howls with laughter.

— come on, kiddo, don’t give me that look. little flower let in for trouble by itself. and so you did.

His grin disappears for a second and _this_ Sans is scaring them to death. They are looking at each other for an endless moment and Frisk can’t feel their legs and arms because of the sudden fear. Then Sans thaws finally and chuckles again.

— well, the past is the past. by the way, I’ve sold _that_ hotdog for a very good price, if you wanna know. glad to hear?

They do not answer. Sans sighs tiredly, waves for a goodbye and disappears once and for all.

— Bastard, — Flowey repeats when it’s sure Sans is not to return. — He even _reminds_ about it!

Frisk caress it, trying to comfort. The loss is no biggie if their body will recover after the reset. They strive to think about it but their thoughts just go back again — especially when they want to say something but cannot.

Well this is kind of worse than undercooked pasta with needles in it.

There goes the nightmare number two: the second Sans’s visit at the middle of the night. After the failed escape Frisk were so desperate they started to insult Papyrus as harsh as they could though it was not something they usually let themselves to do. Papyrus didn’t get any of what they were saying anyway, but Sans, who was standing apart and watching, did it perfectly. And at night, when Frisk were shaking with cold in a thin pile of hay, Sans came to them, holding a small sharp knife in his hand.

They don’t know why Papyrus didn’t wake up from their screams and why the next day there was no creepy bloody puddle. Why didn’t they die of such a loss of it? Why Sans, who was blazing with the red light and laughing terrifically, made himself stop before cutting them into pieces. He didn’t want Papyrus upset, obviously.

His sick addiction to the brother has become the detonator that could save them or kill with the same chances. Frisk choose the first in any case.  
It’s not possible to predict what Sans would not like this time, however.

Flowey healed the wound back then though it hadn’t enough magic; it succeeded to stop bleeding before it was too late. By that time Sans was already gone and so was the slippery red knife in his left arm and so was something that used to be their tongue. Sans left them with an open wound Flowey hardly managed to heal, but the flower couldn’t ever bring their ability to talk back. So he couldn’t make them forget the insufferable pain and fear, and tears falling onto the dirty floor, and this determined expression on Sans’s face.

And the steel flavor in their own saliva.

And all these awful things that should’ve not ever happened.

Frisk hug themselves and lean on the wall. They cannot talk anymore. They are not free to go wherever they want to. They do not live anymore.

They don’t want to live anymore. The determination... they haven’t got it either.

Sans carried it away at the knife’s tip, then roasted it with the sausages and offered for sale.

— The snowstorms are coming soon, — Flowey notices after a little while, when it’s completely dark outside. It’s getting colder in the barn and Frisk manage to see the steam going out as they breath. — You should ask Papyrus for something warm, sweetheart. If we are staying ‘till that time, of course.

It looks expectantly in hope that Frisk will promise to reset. They promise to ask for a blanket instead and Flowey closes its eyes in annoyance, hiding under the sweater again. They both know that Papyrus will forget about their request or simply won’t understand it. He’s a skeleton and cold doesn’t bother him at all, and the human is just his little toy which eats pasta for breakfast, lunch and dinner without complaining. It’d be easier to ask Sans, but Frisk remember he has mentioned oncoming frost:

_«the weather will worsen soon, buddy, — he said back then, staring at Frisk. — there’s bitter cold in snowdin sometimes. try not to freeze to death here. however, — he smiled encouragingly, — don’t be blue. if you die paps would be upset for a couple of days, that’s all. but your body would be just great for a meat mince, — his eyes flickered in a wicked way, making Frisk to press into the wall. — so called wasteless production»._

That’s why they are not even going to ask him for anything.

— Sleep for a while, — Flowey advices when there’s nothing to see in the dark. — I’d wake you up if it becomes too cold.

They agree and bury themselves into the hay, trying to hide entirely. It’s a little warmer, that’s all. Frisk close their eyes, ready to fall into superficial sleep that can be interrupted by any noise; by stranger’s glance and by steel shining.

They are not telling Flowey but they are not going to reset soon. They don’t need to swallow needles just to die and find themselves at the beginning again; the cold will do it better. Frisk seriously suppose that stiffing with cold in this goddamned barn is far better than feeling pain and torturing their poor body again.

And does it make any sense if everything will go in circle on and on? There’s no way out of this nightmare. The monsters are buried here forever and they, Frisk, are doomed to live and die with them. Over and over.

They reach the same end by any means. So do they really have to fight for it?

Frisk forget the «determination» when they answer in the negative.

And fall into their restless sleep.


End file.
